


de Profundis

by quam_ob_rem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Violence, F/M, Gen, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quam_ob_rem/pseuds/quam_ob_rem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of season 10, Castiel attempts to save the Winchesters, who are sent back in time to ancient Rome during the reign of Caligula.  Work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/spoilers: this story takes place after the conclusion of season 10. Therefore, a categorical spoiler warning is in effect for everything that happens prior to the season 10 finale. However, I plan to avoid spoilers when possible and de Profundis is intended to be comprehensible no matter where a viewer is in the Supernatural TV series. This is a Destiel fanfiction, which, as virtually all readers known, means that Dean will (eventually) be romantically involved with Castiel. Emphasis on eventually. 
> 
> I've applied an explicit rating because Ancient Rome is very much an explicit place. Expect violence, slavery, adult content and other period-appropriate themes. I have endeavored to make this work as historically accurate as I can, given that I'm not a classicist. We'll have some Latin throughout this work, because – surprise! – we're in Rome. Latin /Greek grammatical errors made by characters who are clearly fluent speakers are my own. All other grammatical errors are intentional. For clarity's sake I have either implied the English translation or provided it with an asterisk at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> That said, enjoy! I appreciate your comments and reviews.

As I watch the Winchesters, knowing that this moment shall be our final parting, I reflect on the compression of space and time.

I have existed for millennia on end. I watched as the first single-celled organisms arose from the primordial swamp. I stood beside the mother of the last Neanderthal, weeping as her child died in her arms, and with his passing, their species.  Through it all, the simplicity of the mission was my guide. Time sped by, meaningless to us except as an itinerary– what we were to do, and when we were to do it. Mostly, we were to watch, the eyes in the rocks, as life bloomed and died before our eyes. That is, the compression of space and time on a geologic scale.

The past seven thousand years have caused my perception of time to slow. With the ascent of humankind, the clockwork universe no longer operated of its own volition: we were only required to turn the cogs or to replace the occasional faulty screw, to prevent God’s favored creation from destroying itself.  Where there are things to do, to consider, time decompressed. We engaged with God’s creation as more than just silent observers, but participants. Protectors.

A radical notion.

Father had recreated us as _agents_ after passing down this new directive.  The world was deep in the process of transformation beyond recognition, through the actions of Father’s favorite children. We could never have dreamed of the worlds within worlds that humanity would create. The world which Father had created, and then stepped away from, once it truly became alive, the master of its own growth and development.

As I look at the resting bodies of my friends, I find this moment to be a fitting conclusion to my existence. I myself have transformed beyond recognition. A seraphim, a mortal, and a seraphim once more. I have known pain. Hunger. Loss. Longing, the deep yearning that no word can describe.

I have known love. Love for family, for the Winchesters who sleep in my arms, unaware of the destruction of the world that they have known. My hands, the conduit of my grace, is all that keeps them alive.  The Darkness that would have obliterated their existence, as it is now obliterating  every living thing on earth eight millennia after being put away, is but a stormcloud in the very distant future, as I slip further into the recesses of time.

It is an open question as to whether or not there is enough left of my grace to bring the Winchesters back to that critical moment in which all of this could have been prevented.  But I must try.

I am not alone.

Without warning, Death stands beside me, the edge of his scythe pressed against the nape of my vessel’s neck.  He expresses no anger, though Death sometimes feigns anger in the presence of mortals. I am old enough to know the truth: Death is infinitely patient.

And there is no possibility that our meeting is a chance encounter. Death has planned this moment, just as he planned the death of his physical form.

Is that a surprise to you?  Did you truly believe that Death would have handed Dean the one instrument that could cause his own destruction, if the murder was not exactly what Death intended for Dean to do?

The scythe is pressing tighter against my neck. I am aware of the sensation of pain, although the feeling is dissimilar to the pain that is known to humans. The pain of an angel is the agony of failure, of being, in totality, utterly insufficient to the task at hand. o a species created for its obedience, failure is tantamount to disobedience.

There is no greater hurt than to turn away from God.

But I will not think about Him now. Not when He no longer thinks about us.

I knew about the Darkness, though not from experience. I knew that one day the Darkness’ coming would bring the Apocalypse. Not the genocide of humanity, which, to the Winchesters, understandably equated the end of the world. But a true finale to God’s creation.

The Darkness is the antithesis of organic matter. The Darkness is the primordial swamp through which life fought, struggling to emerge.  The prophet’s words rush through my mind, and it is as if I had just heard them. _In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth. And the Earth was a round form, and void, and darkness lay upon the surface of the deep._

I had watched Cain slay Abel, receiving the corruption of Lucifer on his own body to put the Darkness away forever. But I had not watched Heaven’s final victory, where the forces of creation met the forces of destruction on the field of battle.

The Key was lost, but I knew the location of the final battle. Anatolia. Eight thousand years prior to the birth of the Winchesters. I wanted to send the brothers back to that time, to observe what had happened, how the Mark had held back the darkness.

My strength fails me as Death’s scythe cuts deeper. We have traveled two thousand years into the past. We are not nearly far enough, and I do not know Death’s intentions, nor ask to know them. My power, my awareness, has gone wholly into this task. He places a hand on my shoulder.

“It is time, Castiel, Angel of the Lord,” Death says, with the barest hint of a smile.

 _I am not an Angel of the Lord_ , I silently reply, and then I am no more.

 

* * *

 

 _Non fui, fui; non sum, non curo_. I was not, I was; I am not, I do not care. The words had been a famous Epicurean epigraph. These mortal men who boldly proclaimed “death is nothing,” believed that once a human died, the human no longer existed. Therefore the mortal felt no pain or fear because he no longer existed, and so there was no reason to fear Death. And these Epicureans who believed in the finality of life still had their own individual Heaven.

I once visited the heaven of Epicurus, strolling through his luscious gardens. Epicurus believes so strongly in his own philosophy that he does not even know that he is dead and his preparations for his garden party have lasted for thousands of years.

He is content with the remembrance of his mortal friendships and simple joys.

He feels no pain.

Epicurus never knew that his philosophy had not been written as a guide for mortals, but for angels. That he was a prophet sent down to earth by God to remind angels, once more, of our own subservience to Humanity.

There are many in Heaven who have refused to accept the truth of the gospel of Epicurus, many angels who felt anger that God would give this knowledge to mortals instead of directly to the beings who loved Him most.

The gospel of Epicurus states that God does not have an interest in what people are doing.   _Heresy,_ say the angels of Heaven. Yet I ask, does not the gospel speak in metaphors?

Is God not silent?

The angels are afraid of the terrible responsibility of self-determination.

I do not blame them, for so was I.

But I pity these angels and their belief that upon their deaths, they, too, shall be saved. They throw their lives away, believing that even this existence as an angel is temporary. They yearn for unattainable perfection instead of accepting God’s creation for what it is, right now, at this moment.

And Epicurus says, _Death is nothing_.

And I, right now, at this moment, should be nothing.

Death stands beside me, inclines his head slightly, as I ask him such.

“You will see,” he says, and I frown for his cryptic response has told me nothing at all. Then Death vanishes.

 

* * *

 

 _I am alive._ I look around myself, my sight limited to a mile in each direction. Muted browns, a sunset which stirs in me a sense of awe which I have not felt in a very long time. Not since I was mortal.

“Cas?” a familiar voice says behind me. I do not turn. I know that he is all right. “Where are we? What happened?”

I will answer Dean’s questions in the order of their importance, or at least I intend to. But I cannot take my eyes away from the colors wheeling through the sky. Never before has a sunset seemed so vibrant.

“It’s beautiful,” I observe, indicating the ball of hydrogen whose energy is driving the world. This crucial ball of hydrogen which separated the light from the Darkness. I turn to face my friends, aware, suddenly, of a profound exhaustion that has settled into my vessel’s bones, and I sway on my feet.

“Dean—“ I start to say.

“Easy!” Dean says, rushing forward. His arms are underneath my body, grasping me. Once, I was the one who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.

But that was a long time ago.  Relatively speaking. The decompression of time, you see.

Dean is saying something, but I can’t make out his words.  “Where is Sam?” I ask, then catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye. Dean is trying to get me to stop talking and I feel anger, remembering why I brought them to this place. This is important.

“Listen to me. The temple is the lock. Find the temple. And watch.” I am fading fast. There is so much more I want to tell them, but the words are lost in my throat.  “Find Castiel,” I advise, even though the seraphim Castiel who lives at this time will not want to help them.

The Winchesters will convince him.  I have faith in nothing except for the Winchesters.

And then there is nothingness, calling me home.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean struggles underneath the weight of Castiel - not to mention the vertigo of several thousand years of time travel - while Sam pushes himself to his feet. Dazed, Sam looks around for his brother before rushing over to help Dean with the prone form of Castiel.

"Come on, wake up," Dean urges Cas, slowly dropping to his knees so that he can lay Cas on the ground. The angel is limp in his arms, unresponsive as Dean gently slaps his cheeks. Castiel is hot, his face flushed, but his skin is bone dry. Red cheeked, he looks even more angelic now than he ever had as a seraphim.

"Son of a bitch, he's burning up," Dean swears. He can feel Castiel's pulse jockeying like a racehorse beneath his skin. A passer-by observing the scene might think that this was heat stroke, and he'd be correct. But the Mediterranean sun was not what did this. Dean takes off Castiel's clothing, desperately trying to lower his core body temperature, but ends up simply gritting his teeth and hanging on as Castiel's body convulses.

Dean holds Castiel's legs and torso while Sam removes Castiel's trenchcoat, his suitcoat, his tie, tossing the clothing to the side. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat. _How long did Castiel carry us?_ Sam wonders, knowing that such an accumulation of sweat would have taken hours, perhaps days. Sam shakes his head, wondering if his life is worth what Castiel has sacrificed to preserve it.

Meanwhile, Dean unbuttons the top of Castiel's shirt, swearing, wracking his brain for a way to lower Castiel's temperature. They are in an open field without any shade, and Dean has no supplies. Dean knows enough about wilderness survival to recognize that this is a serious situation. If Castiel's body cannot be cooled down, he will die.

Castiel will die, because Castiel is mortal again, and whose fault is that? Once again, Dean believes he is responsible for Castiel's predicament. It is Dean's fault that Castiel had to expend what was left of his grace to bring them to where they are now. _Wherever the Hell we are now._ "The temple" had been no answer at all. There's no fucking _temple_ in sight and neither brother has a clue where or _when_ they are.

A breeze ruffles Dean's hair, blows Castiel's tie away. Neither Sam nor Dean notices the tie floating away, but the breeze feels good against Dean's sweaty face. Cool.

Suddenly, Dean knows what to do. Sammy's never going to let him live it down, but right now, Dean doesn't care. All Dean wants is to save his friend, who strains against him, body seizing in the heat.

Dean begins to lick Castiel's face.

"Dean, what the Hell?" Sam asks, bewildered, but when Dean glares at him and the wind blows again, Sam gets it. Castiel has lost too much water to sweat, so Dean is trying to sweat for him, to cool Castiel's body through evaporation. Dean licks Castiel's throat, his chest, as he had done to countless women, but for Dean, there is nothing sexual in his attentions. He is desperate to save his friend's life.

Sam holds Castiel down. The angel's struggles are slowing, but neither Sam nor Dean knows if this is a good thing.

"Please, Cas," Dean begs, after ten minutes of this have gone on. His voice cracks, ostensibly from dehydration. "You can't do this to us. We don't know where we are. Hell, we don't know _when_ we are. Don't leave us. Not now. Not after everything."

Dean bends over Castiel's body again, about to continue the treatment, when Sam stops him, "Dean," he utters, in warning.

Dean looks up from Castiel to see a tanned man in a tunic approaching. The man says something that sounds like " _have_ " but Dean cannot make it out. What Dean does perceive is a smell, the kind of human odor which most people in the first world will never know. It is not a stench, but merely the natural smell of the human body, when the body regulates its own cleanliness.

" _Ave_ ," the man repeats, voice louder. The accent is unlike any that either Dean or Sam have ever heard.

"Hello?" Dean replies stupidly, and Sam inwardly cringes, glancing down at unconscious Castiel who could help them out of this, if he were only awake.

"Auxilium?" the man asks. Sam rises to his feet, and notices that the man is short, much shorter than Sam. Maybe only five feet tall. But the stranger's arm muscles are thick and corded, like a bodybuilder. This is a man who has done hard manual labor. A wooden sword hangs from his simple leather baldric.

"Velitis auxilium?" the man asks again.

The second time Sam hears the same word, _auxilium_ , he recognizes it. _Latin. Help. The man is asking if we need help._

It has been years since Sam studied Latin, and even then, the ecclesiastical Latin Sam had learned for exorcisms had been adapted for the use of clerics during the Middle Ages. In other words, Sam doesn't speak the vernacular, and he knows it.

The feeling is uncomfortably similar to when he'd used the textbook Spanish Sam had learned during his first semester at Stanford to talk to some native speakers on a case with Dean. His constructions were a far cry from the vernacular.

But.

At least Sam could still communicate. And he can talk with the stranger now. Sam looks at Dean, whose body is tense, guarding Castiel.

"Dean. I can talk to him."

"In Church Latin?" Dean shoots back, but Sam ignores him, his attention returned to the stranger.

"Um, Salve. Amicus mei," Sam says, pointing at Castiel and Dean. _Shit, should've said Amici mei._ "Invalidus est. Calidior est." _My friend. He is not well. He is too hot_ , Sam had said.

Or at least he believes that's what he's said.

"Iuvem," is the response. Sam stares, but the man's face is benign, reaching for a horn that hung off his baldric. The man undoes the clasp and holds the horn for Sam to see. "Auxilium," he reiterates, with the hint of a smile, as if he was in on some private joke. "Pro Calidiorus tuus.*"

"What the Hell is he saying, Sammy?"

"I think he wants to help."

The Roman gives the horn to Sam, who takes off the lid and looks inside, smelling the contents. Water. He half expects it to be holy water, given the family business, and wonders how water is sanctified in the time before Christ. _Are we before Christ?_

"Aqua," Sam identifies the liquid for Dean's benefit, intentionally using an English-Latin cognate. Their Latin-speaking friend nods. After giving the horn to Dean, Sam watches as Dean parts Castiel's lips and pours a small amount of water into the angel's mouth, running his hands down Castiel's neck, trying to get him to swallow.

"Tibi gratia," Sam says to the stranger, glad that he at least remembered how to say _thank you_ from his high school Latin class. Dad sure as hell hadn't taught him that one.

"Auxilium," the man says a final time, pointing to the horn. Then, he turns away from Sam and Dean, occupied with their attempt to resuscitate their fallen friend.

So it was that neither Sam nor Dean observed the Latin-speaker's eyes flash blue, or the half smile that crossed his lips.

The sky darkened with rainclouds. Moments later, a distant thunder like a rumbling yawn shook the ground beneath them, and the heavens opened into a downpour.

"Fer?" the stranger asks, speaking loudly to be heard over the storm around them. Sam and Dean look up at him, not comprehending. The stranger mimed throwing a body over his shoulder. " _Dare!_ " the stranger tried again, wondering if a different word would get through to him.

 _Bring. He's asking us to bring Castiel._ "Dean, can you pick him up?"

"And go where?" Dean asked, frustrated, looking at the Latin-speaker distrustfully.

"I don't know. We're in the countryside. A farm? I know you don't like it, but what other option do we have?"

Dean was already hefting Castiel onto his shoulders. The rain had plastered their clothes to their bodies. Dean could feel that Castiel's rapid pulse had slowed, his skin was cooler. But the angel still needed more help than what the Winchesters could provide without supplies. The "divine providence" of the rainstorm had been helpful, but it was not enough. Cas needed to wake up and tell them what the Hell was going on.

They began to walk through the fields, to only God knows where.

"Sum Gnaeus. Qui nomini vobis estis?"

 _He's asking us our names_ , Sam realized. _Think fast!_

"Um. Servius," Sam identifies himself, then points to lumbering Dean, carrying Castiel. "Decimus. Caius infirmis est." _Caius is sick. Shit, should I have used the vocative for that? What is the right vocative, anyway? Serve? Servi?_ Sam translates what was said to Dean.

"He says his name is Gnaeus. I just said your name is Decimus. I'm Servius, and that's Caius."

" _Decimus_? You're giving him fake names?"

 _We are_ not _having this argument Dean. Not now._ "You want to sound like you come from another planet?"

"Cas is dying, we're trapped in the middle of nowhere, and you want to play pretend while this bozo leads us into a trap?"

"In case you didn't notice, Dean, we're not exactly swimming in other options here!"

Gnaeus merely looks at them both, not comprehending the argument. He is fluent in several dozen human languages, but Modern American English is not one of them.

Yet.

Gnaeus is listening, trying to figure out the syntax, analyzing the frequency of the words being used. The bickering continues while Castiel remains slumped over Dean's shoulders like a bag of potatoes. Gnaeus is keeping an eye on him, too, sensing his vital signs.

A structure slowly becomes visible at the edge of the meadow. It looks like a small farmhouse, but then there are others that can be seen in the distance, along with livestock pens, a small vineyard, and an orchard which Sam assumes is for growing olives. There is even a stone aqueduct to channel the rainfall into the fields. Though it is raining, the grounds are still a bustle of activity.

"A farmhouse. Looks like you were right." Dean is glad to see the structures, if only because he wants relief from carrying Castiel's heavy weight. Though he will never admit it, carrying his friend is exhausting what little strength Dean had scrounged up since they escaped the Darkness. He just wants to rest.

As the group draws closer, a large one story building becomes the most prominent feature in the landscape. Its whitewashed walls with brown framed windows are surrounded by cultivated daisies and roses. A Roman villa. Sam remembers that the interior of the structure likely contains a central courtyard. Pleasant.

Except for the fenced-in space to the left of the building which is neither animal pen nor protected field, from which emanates grunts and cries of men.

"Villa Marius," Gnaeus says, pointing to the large house. "Ludi gladiatorum.**"

Suddenly, the wooden sword hanging from Gnaeus' baldric makes sense.

Oh, shit.

* * *

*A remedy, for your rather hot (overheated) man.

**A gladiator school.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever possible, Death does not leave events to chance.

Something as important as staving off the Apocalypse cannot be entrusted to the Winchesters and especially not to their angelic companion. Even if Castiel survived, the angel was a dangerous maverick. Death has not forgotten how Castiel betrayed both Heaven and the Winchesters not once, not twice, but _three times_.

Well and good, then, that the powers of the angel Castiel were grounded.

However, Death needs a pawn. Someone easily controlled who can watch over the Winchesters to ensure that they do his bidding. He knows just whom he will approach: the one player more hapless than Castiel, who will do anything to redeem himself after his error condemned man to Fall.

With a snap of his fingers, Death appears inside Heaven's jail, gazing upon the pitiful grace of the angel Gadreel. He is shocked to see that the angel has a different vessel than when he was first imprisoned. A startlingly familiar new vessel.

The vessel that Gadreel now occupies was known during his life as _Hercules_.

The primordial Reaper's thin eyebrows raise in surprise before his lips twitch into a smile. _So Heaven has also found a use for this pathetic angel_ , Death observes, wondering how many of Hercules' famous deeds had been accomplished solely by the grace of his angelic companion. Even Death knows the stories: Hercules slew the Nemean Lion, captured Cerberus, stole the apples of the Hesperides. Some of the tales are apocryphal, but others are very real.

Death would know.

After all, he had been there.

But famous Hercules, whose apotheosis would be depicted in art for thousands of years into the future, was as pitiful as the tattered grace of Gadreel. Lashed to a chair, head bleeding from iron nails hammered into his skull, both angel and mortal had been tortured so thoroughly that neither was aware of Death's presence. The angel only stirred when Death put a gloved hand on Gadreel's shoulder, sending a sepulchral chill down the angel's spine. Blue eyes cracked open and gazed up blankly at Death.

" _Zir noco iad Gadreel,"*_ the angel says, and Death looks at him with sympathy. Contrary to popular belief, Death is not merciless. After all, mercy can be pragmatic. Taking the angel's head in his gloved hands, Death gazes into the Gadreel's blind blue eyes, evaluating his choice of servant.

" _Zir noco iad Gadreel. Zir noco iad Gadreel,"_ the angel reiterates, as if Death had not heard him the first or second time. Death allows himself to feel a small amount of sadness.

"You are the servant of the eternal God," Death affirms in Enochian. Speaking the pretentious language of the angels is distasteful to Death, whose near-omnipotence means he need _pretend_ to nothing, but Enochian is the only language that Death can be certain Gadreel will understand. "It is time for you to save your Father's creation."

The reaper presses his fingertips firmly against Gadreel's temples, transmitting images of the ascent of the Darkness and the Hell that now exists on earth. Gadreel's blind eyes widen as the scenes assault his mind. Angels do not cry, but Death can feel the shock and sorrow radiating from Gadreel. Even after everything that Heaven has done to him, Gadreel loves his Father and His creation with all his being. _Baffling._ The motivations of true believers were incomprehensible to Death, who knew the existence of gods to be as finite as that of men.

_Now to ensure Gadreel understands what he sees._

"You behold the End of Man," Death narrates, privately amused at the irony of showing the angel Gadreel, who set in motion the events leading to the so-called Fall of Man, the face of a true apocalypse. The mighty vessel trembles beneath Death's fingertips, but the reaper does not relent.

Death takes his fingers from Gadreel's face and gracefully removes his black gloves.

" _Zir noco iad Gadreel. Zir noco iad Gadreel,"_ says Gadreel, but the angel's voice is strained with anguish. He despairs to do something to stop this future, if he can just be set free of this chair.

 _I have him._ Death gives a slight nod, satisfied. Then he plunges his bare hands into Gadreel's chest, seizing the angel's grace as effortlessly as if he had reached into a barrel for an apple. As Death's hands are removed, grasping a white-blue ball, the body of Hercules curls forward, dying from the horrific wounds it has suffered. This is Death's will, and Hercules' own, for the mortal has suffered indescribable agonies at the hands of the angels.

In his left hand, Death holds the glowing mass of Gadreel's grace, considering his gambit.

"You are the redeemer and the destroyer. The pawn and the messiah. You must not let this future come to pass, for you are an Angel of the Lord. Go forth, and save creation." Death instructs the glowing ball, grateful that the next time he speaks to Gadreel, their conversation will be in Latin.

Death snaps his fingers, and Gadreel's grace hurtles down towards the earth.

" _Godspeed_ ," Death says in English, with a half-smile.

A shining comet is observed over Picenum in Italy. _It is a divine omen_ , say the soothsayers. _The birth of a great king, or a demigod_. Their eyes look to the sky in wonder as the blue-white ball slams down into the earth, a sudden rainstorm arising in its wake. Children born during this storm will be prophesied to change the world.

The fallen angel needs a host. The thousands of Picenese overwhelm Gadreel with their suffering and need. There are just so many who could use his help. So many whose lives could be improved if Gadreel were to inhabit them.

But Gadreel is looking for a specific type of person: a man who is trained in the arts of war, but who has no family to mourn him if both angel and vessel die in their divine task. A man who, like Gadreel himself, would do anything for redemption.

A man who, like Gadreel, deserves a second chance.

The region of Picenum is home to several villages, a few hundred farms, and, most recently, a gladiatorial school. In another fifty years the four famous schools - the _Bestiares Ludus_ , the _Gallic Ludus_ , the _Dacian Ludus_ and the _Magnus Ludus_ , will open in Rome adjacent to the Flavian amphitheater, known to future generations as the Coliseum. However _munera_ , or gladiatorial bouts, have already flourished for centuries prior to the construction of the famous stadium.

The _Ludus Marius_ is a smaller 'budget' school of no import to the history of the world, except for this moment in which the grace of Gadreel descends upon it in search of the perfect host.

As Gadreel arrives, he observes the hard men go about the day's labor underneath the hawkish eyes of the _lanista_ , the gladiatorial trainer. Gadreel sees practice dummies painted with stripes of yellow and red, to which the lanista stabs a finger, explaining the anatomy of combat. Yellow are places to which a blow will cripple an opponent. Areas marked red will kill him. But death is not the object of most matches.

"Do not kill your opponents!" the _lanista_ barks. "You are to put on a show! Toy with him, embarrass him, but kill him and you have cost a rich man a very valuable investment. Do not forget that the gladiatorial show is the _exhibition_ of combat, not the _execution_ of combatants. It is to show off the fighting style of Rome's enemies."

Ironically, the _lanista_ is speaking to many such enemies: a _captive_ audience, in fact. Men from long-haired Gaul, from Hispania, from the tiny kingdoms in the Levant. Numidians. But the _lanista i_ s also speaking to native Romans, some of whom have even sold themselves as gladiators to pay their debts.

Gadreel sees many vessels at the gladiatorial school who would make suitable hosts, but he needs to find out more about the men and their skills before he makes a decision. From his time inhabiting Hercules one thousand years in the past, Gadreel has learned how to wield a club and bash in skulls. But Gadreel does not know how to use the modern technology of war. The net and trident, the devastating _puglio_ with which the Roman legionaries are so devastating. The _hastati_ , the spearman, with his light armor and far-throwing arm. So much expertise lies before Gadreel. He must pick wisely.

The _lanista_ examines the new recruits who stand in front of him. He has them open their mouths and looks at their teeth, the muscles of the arms and legs, the genitals, assessing strength and vitality. The gladiator must be beautiful in form, the object of the crowd's desire.

How strange it is that these men are also reviled as the lowest of the low, the scum of the world, even as they are worshipped and desired.

 _Trainer_ and _doctor_ are the two roles of the _lanista_ , and as such, the gladiators look up to their _lanista_ as God and Devil. His name is Marcus Vipsania and he is as merciless as Letus himself.

And Letus, known to the Winchesters as Death, has taken a keen interest in Gadreel's decision. He appears in a black tunic of sumptuous wool, posing as a potential investor, while he watches events unfold.

One by one the recruits are paired off, outfitted with a wooden sword, or _baculum_. In coming days they will receive specialized training, but for now, Vipsania must ensure that they have mastered the basics. _Parry, thrust, parry, thrust._ Grunting, the thwack of wood against wood, the stamp of feet on the earth, and dropped _baculi_. Vipsania does not like what he sees.

Dissatisfied with the strokes of the recruits, who look little better than slaves playing with kitchen knives (some of them, are, in fact, just that), Vipsania orders a retired gladiator to demonstrate the proper technique. The forty year old man is unremarkable in visage except for his cunning yellow eyes.

Letus' mouth opens in surprise. _This is an unexpected incident_. But Death does not feel frustrated or angry. These are emotions belonging to humans, angels, and demons. Positively _pedestrian_ , to a being more ancient than the Lord himself.

It is unwise for Letus to linger lest he reveal his presence, especially to someone as destined as the retired gladiator Agrippa Valerius, known by Hell as Azazel. If Azazel recognizes Death, Azazel must die. And it is not yet time for yellow-eyes to die.

Death departs, and Gadreel is on his own.

 _Parry, thrust, stab. Buckler up, buckler down. Swing high, swing low. Jump. Duck_. The _baculi_ simulate the lethal blades the gladiators will face, but they are not without their own risks. Swung with enough force, the wooden blade can crack bones. If the skull is struck hard enough, at the right angle, the wooden blade can kill.

Yellow-eyed Agrippa knows this way, and many other more subtle ways of causing death. It is the only reason that he is still alive. The gladiators may not be truly trying to kill each other, but after ten years in the game, a lethal accident was almost a certainty. Azazel knows this too, and so does every man present, except for the spirit of Gadreel which has never before seen a _munus_ , a gladiatorial match.

Gadreel has never before seen a demon, either, and his eyes do not linger on Azazel, discounting the ersatz gladiator as an unfit host on account of his age. Instead, Gadreel's attention moves to a younger man with olive skin and dark brown hair clipped close to his head.

 _Gnaeus_ is this man's name, and Gadreel can sense no more, for rest of Gnaeus' history is wrapped up in layers of guilt and pain so thick that Gadreel cannot peel past it. But Gnaeus' body is strong, uninjured. His features are attractive but not so attractive as to be noticeable or distracting.

Most important of all, Gnaus knows how to wield a blade, repelling the advances of his sparring partner with ease. _This is the one,_ Gadreel decides. But how will he convince the mortal to consent to being possessed? Death should have told Gadreel how to approach a host in this new era. After all, it had been so long, and Gadreel has no idea that the deeds of his past host have become legendary.

 _What deities does this man know?_ The last that Gadreel had heard of them, the Romans did not even have name for their gods, but called them the _numina_. Shapeless, formless deities, with no personalities, no souls. _Someone foreign, then. But who?_

"I am Mithras," Gadreel proclaims, hoping that the Persian deity, _Miça,_ which he has Latinized on the spot, will not sound too outlandish to Gnaeus. "And I am here to help you. Give me the use of your body, and I shall give you your freedom. This I promise you, Gnaeus, by the dirt of the earth and the spirits of the numina."

Gnaeus stands dumbfounded at the sound of the disembodied voice that has addressed him by name. His jaw is slack, and he stares into space, wondering if he has suddenly gone stark raving mad.

"Gnae! Pay attention!" Vipsania chastises the recruit, delivering a brutal blow behind Gnae's ears. Gnaeus stumbles, his ears ringing with the force of Vipsania's fist, and stares furiously at Gadreel. The angel is filled with sympathy.

"I can help you," Gadreel pleads. "I will steady your hands, slow the beating of your heart, help you conquer your enemies. _Say yes_."

Gnaeus doesn't know who he is talking to, and has never heard of this _Mithras_ asshole or whatever deity the angel is purporting to be.

Or maybe, Gnaeus thinks to himself, he is dead and in Tartarus. Dead like his wife and son, who had slain by Gnaeus' own brave daughter, Gnaea.

He remembered the scene, remembered arriving back to his small apartment in the _subura_ to find the corpses of his family strewn outside his house. A traumatized neighbor had recounted to Gnaeus that his daughter had slain her mother and brother so that they would not be forced into prostitution. Gnaea herself had been raped while her mother and brother were helpless to stop her assailant. After the slaver had finished with Gnaea, the family had been loaded up into a slave wagon, and that was when Gnaea had murdered her own mother and brother. Then Gnaea had followed Lucretia's example and plunged her dagger into her own chest.

It should never have happened. _It would never have happened_ if Gnaeus had not failed them. Gnaeus, who had everything taken away from him in just one night. _Just one night_ when the freedman had spent too long at the Crossroads Collegia, the seedy social club in which Gnaeus had belonged in the days when he had had a last name and a family.

Selling himself into slavery as a gladiator had raised enough funds to commission Corvus, the local syndicate boss, to make a hit on the man who had destroyed his family. Gnaeus would die knowing that he had been avenged. And Gnaeus had seen that the funds for the contract had been delivered to that whoreson mafioso. But now the shackles were on Gnaeus' wrists, and no services had been rendered by Corvus. And now Gnaeus believed that he had been a fool for throwing his life away. A fool with a life expectancy of less than ten years. If the gods were kind, Gnaeus would die in his first _munus._

He could not do any worse than he had was no forgiveness and no better days.

This Mithras asshole could help him kill his enemies?

" _Yes_ ,' Gnaeus shouted, and the amphitheater filled with dazzling light even as rainclouds formed overhead.

 _The birth of a god,_ the soothsayers said.

In his mortal vessel, the angel Gadreel had work to do.

* * *

*According to the supernaturalwiki, this translates to "I am (the) servant of the eternal god, Gadreel."


End file.
